Kaleidoscope
by ofbrothersandteacakes
Summary: He wished everyone would just shut up about soulmates.


The day of his mom's memorial, only days after their house had burned, everyone wore _black_. It wasn't a colour, but to Dean, nothing was a colour – after all, he hadn't found his soulmate. He was only four, why would he have found the person he was supposed to be with forever? But even then, Dean had known that his mom hadbeen his dad's soulmate. People were all but born knowing what soulmates were. And if the whispers at the memorial were to be believed, people who had lost their soulmate had a distinct look in their eye. The whispers said that his dad had that exact look – not that Dean could spot it, being four.

He knew what black was because it was the very darkest thing there was to see in the world. "Black," his dad explained, later, when Sammy was settled and they were simply sat together, being a family, as best they could with one of them forever gone, "Shows grief. It means people are sad that your mom is gone, like us."

"It's one of the only colours everybody can see," Dean said, his voice small and quiet, as it had been ever since the house burned, ever since his mother had burned. "It holds everyone together."

His dad had smiled then, a tired smile. "Yes, because it isn't _really _a colour. Like white," he told Dean, holding him close, as if that'd somehow stop their family falling any further apart. "They're the only colours we can all identify."

"Can you see other colours, Daddy?" Dean asked, his voice even softer, his eyes wide and sincere as he stared up at his dad.

The tired smile wavered. "I can," his dad said, clutching onto Dean like a lifeline. Dean, in turn, held onto Sammy. Sammy, his small little bundle to protect, no matter what the cost. Sammy, who he had carried out of the fire, to safety, only days before.

"Was Mom your soulmate?" Dean asked, somehow managing to make his voice quieter still.

He watched as a soft breath escaped his dad and as he briefly closed his eyes. "She was," his dad said, and something in his eyes changed. Dean saw it, then. _The look_ people had spoken about only hours before, when they thought Dean couldn't hear. And although he was only four, Dean swore to himself then that he didn't want a soulmate. To him, it seemed like it hurt too much to lose.

The theory, however, was unavoidable.

Over the next few years, as the small family moved from town to town, Dean was taught lesson after lesson about soulmates. They'd been a part of humanity for countless generations, traced all the way back to Biblical times, according to most soulmate historians. Nobody knew the exact science behind it, or whether there even was one. It seemed that soulmates just _were_.

"Soulmates are considered a peculiar mix of choice and fate. It takes your own realisation of who your soulmate is to see in colour. Most humans only discover their soulmate as a result of their soulmate passing away," one teacher explained. "Of course, doing so usually causes people to fall into a state of despair. Soulmates are not necessary for survival, but they give many people a purpose, a reason for existing. Losing that is one of the most terrible feelings in the world."

It was something Dean had heard what felt like a hundred times before, and each time, it only grew more frustrating.

"How can you only have _one _reason for existing?" he demanded that night. It was a rare occasion, where he and Dad were actually home with Sammy, instead of off on a hunt. "There's more to life than that. Right, Dad?" he asked.

His dad had let out a sigh. They'd had this conversation plenty of times before, almost always after a lesson on soulmates. "Yes, son. There can be other reasons in life to exist," he assured him. But Dean was fourteen now and was more than familiar with the look in his father's eye. "But soulmates are different. A soulmate quite literally lights up your world. Some people can't handle losing that."

"You're here even though Mom's gone," Dean pointed out, something he had never dared to do before. He was proud of himself for actually succeeding in saying the words, instead of mumbling them, like he'd been tempted to.

"I have you and Sammy," his dad reminded him. "And the hunt." He paused for a moment, watching Dean contemplatively. "You shouldn't worry about soulmates, Dean. You're a hunter. If you ever have the time to realize somebody is your soulmate, you're probably not working hard enough." It had been said reassuringly, to try and distract Dean from the concept entirely.

He gave him whiskey then, despite his age. His dad had been treating him like a man for years, after all. "What colour is it?" Dean found himself asking, unable to stop the curious question. He may have had no intention of ever seeing in colour, but that didn't mean he couldn't find out what they were. Still, it caught his dad by surprise. He blinked almost owlishly at Dean for a second before answering.

"It's brown. More of an amber, I suppose, but brown if you'd rather keep it simple," he answered, watching Dean knock it back. "Only the cheap stuff," he added with a laugh at the face Dean pulled.

Sammy wandered over then. "Can I have some, Dad?" he pleaded. "_Please _let me try. I can handle it better than Dean," he swore.

Dean snorted. "No, you can't. Go away," he said, puffing out his chest and holding out his glass expectantly for a refill. "It just caught me by surprise," he said, waving the glass impatiently.

But their dad only chuckled. "No, Sammy, you can't have any. And one glass is enough, Dean. You're still only fourteen," he told him, shaking his head. He got up to stow the bottle away again and Dean scowled at Sammy. His younger brother only stuck his tongue out in return.

Sammy, as he grew older, only seemed like more and more of a romantic. He was completely enthralled in the idea of soulmates and fawned over perhaps finding his own one day. "I don't know how you can't be excited at the prospect, Dean," he practically gushed, when he was fourteen, having had a very similar lesson to what Dean had been given at his age.

"We're hunters, Sammy," he insisted stubbornly. "We won't have _time _to find soulmates." It was an abridged version of what his dad had told him, but he thought it got the point across.

Sammy had blinked at him. "I'm not going to be a hunter forever," he said, and Dean felt something then. It was close to pain, but not quite.

He brushed it off and rolled his eyes. "Of course you'll be a hunter forever. It's what we do. The family business," he said, dismissive and keen to move away from the thought of Sammy leaving them. And though Sammy hadn't tried to argue, there was something close to pity in his expression, as if he knew then that he would be leaving eventually. Whether Dean liked it or not, he wasn't going to be a hunter forever. That didn't mean he couldn't pretend, just for a little while longer, that Sammy enjoyed hunting as much as he and their dad did.

The bus Sammy rode off in, four years later, to go to Stanford, was blue. He knew because the woman who gave Sammy the ticket said, "Bus number four, the blue one." She'd said it absently, probably not even registering the fact she'd addressed a colour most people couldn't even see by its name.

Sat on the familiar brown leather of the otherwise black Impala, Dean watched the blue bus for as long as he could, until it vanished completely out of sight. There was a pain, back in his chest, and something swirling in his stomach. He supposed most people would call it homesickness. He knew, though, that Sammy was going to be happy and safe, doing what he wanted to do. That, for Dean, was enough to keep him from throwing up.

The next few weeks were spent in something of a stupor, with the majority of Dean's time being dedicated to booze and sex. "My soulmate is my sister," the woman in front of him said, smiling brightly. Even though he was somewhat tipsy, the words were enough to make him recoil. The woman laughed. "It's not like, y'know, _romantic_. But when we were kids, I pushed her out of the way of this car, and ever since..." she trailed off, the smile still playing on her lips. "We just can't imagine a world without each other, you know?"

Dean snorted, moving closer to the woman again. "I don't agree with this whole soulmate thing," he told her. He couldn't deny they made for an interesting conversation starter though. "Having one sole purpose for existing and all that crap. It doesn't sound healthy to me."

The woman shrugged. "It works for us. I suppose you might not see it until you feel it. If you let yourself feel it," she told him, running perfect fingers down his arm. "And seeing colour is so wonderful. You're missing out."

He shivered involuntarily. "How about you just tell me what colour you're wearing right now?" he murmured.

Red was the colour she was wearing, it turned out, in the form of a daring little dress that he practically ripped off her later that night. Dean was already familiar with the colour, overly so, but it was still difficult to identify among all the other shades of grey, no matter how many wounds pouring it he had stitched up.

He'd never really thought of soulmates as being anything other than romantic. And although the woman, whose name he never did learn, was one of many he slept with in that time, he never forgot her, or the fact her soulmate had been entirely platonic.

It did not, however, change the fact that Dean's world remained in shades of grey for almost six more years. Sam remained at college for only four of them, and then Dean was dragging him back into the hunting life. He wonders, sometimes, if Sam quietly hates him for it. They never talk about the colours and whether Sam can see them, if Jess allowed him to see the world as it was meant to be seen. In fact, they avoid talking about soulmates completely. Dean isn't sure whether the silence is confirmation of what he suspects. The look their dad has in his eyes is not present in Sam's.

He wondered if his brother feels guilty for that.

Dean's world continued to be grey, and black, and white.

At Cold Oak, soulmates weren't even the last thing on Dean's mind. He didn't spare them one single thought as Sam stumbled towards him, calling his name. The world around them was bleak, Sam being the only bright spot in a world full of miserable, dark shades and crackling thunder. For a moment, Dean allowed himself to believe it was going to be okay. He allowed himself to believe they were both going to be fine.

"Sam, look out!" he shouted, as soon as he saw the man stepping up behind his brother, his heart screeching to a halt in his chest.

The words did nothing to halt the knife that pierced Sam's back, the fleshy, wet sound audible even from the distance Dean was from his brother. Sam grunted out a sharp exhale, dropping to his knees, his head lolling back and then forwards as Dean skidded to his knees in front of him, desperately clinging to Sam's shirt, as if it would help him hold onto life itself.

"Sam!" Dean said urgently, insistently, supporting the entirety of his brother's weight. His younger brother seemed to be almost boneless, his body sagging towards the ground even as Dean tried to keep him upright. "Sam," he repeated desperately. "Hey. Hey, hey, come here. Let me look at you," he said, pawing at Sam's back, like his efforts would do anything to cease the bleeding. His palm was coated in blood when he pulled it away.

His brother's head continued to flop uselessly. "Hey, look at me. It's not even that bad, all right?" he insisted. Sam's eyes couldn't even focus on Dean. "Sammy. SAM!" he tried, unable to stop the aggression seeping into his tone as he tried to keep his brother awake. "Hey, listen to me. We're going to patch you up, okay? You'll be good as new, huh?" Even to his own ears, Dean's voice seemed pleading. "I'm going to take care of you. I've got you. That's my job, right? Watch out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother?" He grasped his brother's face. "Sam?" he begged. He could sense his brother's life slipping through his fingers, but it didn't stop him shouting, "_Sammy!" _

But already, Sam's eyes had fallen shut.

His brother's lifeless body slumped limply in Dean's arms as he rocked him, the sobs already beginning to choke their way out of him.

As pain and emotion threatened to envelop him, Dean's world erupted into colour with the brown of mud, the red of blood, the grey of Sam's skin, and a devastating kaleidoscope of colours he had no desire to learn.

* * *

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Supernatural_.**

**Sam and Dean are purely platonic soulmates. No incest is intended in this piece.**


End file.
